


Of Coffee Shops, Poetry and Flora.

by BlackandBlueMagpie



Series: Wonderful One plus One [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:50:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackandBlueMagpie/pseuds/BlackandBlueMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac doesn't know what intrigues him so much about the man in the corner.<br/>The man behind the counter distracts Jehan from his poetry</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Coffee Shops, Poetry and Flora.

Courfeyrac doesn't know what intrigues him so much about the man in the corner.  
He would come in everyday, without fail, at 3 o'clock, ordering a cappuccino and a raspberry muffin; unless it was Sunday in which case it was a hot chocolate and lavender shortbread.   
He'd balance the two precariously, holding his at least-two notebooks under one arm, until Courf was always tempted to give him a hand; if not for conversation rather than worry for the crockery. He would the settle on the table on the slightly raised area next to the bay window, which everyone agreed was the best seat in the house and afforded him a good view of the street outside.  
Then the ritual would begin.   
Usually it started with the cutting up of the muffin, not into halves of quarters like everyone else but into eighths, so that the thin layers nearly crumbled when they were selected at various intervals.  
He would then proceed to rest his chin on his fingers and stare out of the window until, seemingly, some sort of inspiration struck and he began scribbling on one of the books, a napkin, his skin, with what looked like a quill. Sometimes it was the embossed leather, other times he switched half way on a whim to some garish purple silk book.   
It was that part which distracted Courf the most, watching the hands work, fingers skimming over pages so that they barely seemed to touch the paper, or sometimes pressing so hard Courf feared the pen would go through. Then the pen would twist between the inked fingers with their rings briefly before he was off again.  
Eventually he'd stop to sip his drink, sometimes not realising for a moment that the foam collected on his top lip.   
Then he'd take a slice of muffin, or a bite of shortbread - gradually nibbling away the edges until the lavender flower in the centre was the only piece left for the final bite before leaving.   
And so the cycle would continue, stare, sip, scribble.   
Occasionally he'd get distracted, rearranging the sugar bowl, milk jug, lantern and vase around themselves; popping a sugar cube into his mouth as he fiddled with the flowers.  
It would usually be five before he left, gathering up his notebooks and pens, stacking the plates on his table and giving a wave before he left with a tinkling of the bell.  
Courf always volunteered to clean up the tables, on the off chance that something had been left and he'd have an excuse to talk to him just a little longer the next day.

~~~

Jehan loved the little coffee shop.  
It was on the corner, just across from the Pont des Arts bridge and had those old fashioned tall doors that were half glass and usually smelt like new paint.  
Inside was bare brick walls and mismatched chairs and bare wood. Everything was some form of chaos, none of the candle holders were the same, nor the vases and it must have taken dedication to find all of them. The tea cups and saucers were paired, but he got a different one every day; though his favourite was a small baby blue cup that looked plain enough, but was decorated so beautifully in the bowl that it amazed him every time he took a sip.   
Everything was homemade, from the decorations and the chalkboard menus to the cookies and cakes lined up in jars and on stands on the wooden counter.  
It was always quiet around 3, though the streets still remained full enough to provide him with sufficient inspiration for poetry, thinking up elaborate back stories and whys and hows and reasons for their being there. The bay window became his favourite spot, with its silken cushions that his hands wandered over, tracing beaded patterns.  
Occasionally his eyes would wander from the outside to the people within the cafe, across the bookshelves full of books that he was sure no one bothered to read, across the ever-full notice board and eventually coming to the counter with its coffee beans and shelves.  
The man behind the counter never failed to catch his interest.  
He was tall, with brown hair that fell in loose waves around his cheeks. He wore glasses which, on alternate days, Jehan thought with either needed or ironic. His face was usually dappled with a light stubble that suggested late nights. His clothes were smart, in a trying to be scruffy way; a wardrobe of skinny jeans and button up shirts. Jehan could watch him work all day, arranging and rearranging fresh baked treats, making coffee, hands moving over the cash register and he smiled at customers with an all too charming smile.  
And so Jehan made it his mission, after his lectures, to come by the little cafe and contemplate his poetry there, even if only to see that smile.

~~~

As it happened, the day was a Friday. Courfeyrac had come in at 1.30 and shortly after been bustled into the kitchen to bake more cakes due to the unexpected rush.   
The weather had been nasty first thing, rain and dark black skies despite the rays of sunshine that saturated the grass to an odd green. The later clear skied sunshine, emerging from the rainbow streaked sky had not been anywhere near as pretty.  
He'd been so busy behind the scenes he nearly missed 3 o'clock and had been forced to hurry out with floury hands to take over the counter. He half feared he'd missed the poet when the bell sounded and he appeared.  
Today he was wearing bottle green, a blazer with some kind of corduroy trousers and brogues. A floating scarf wound its way around his neck in the same way a baby blue ribbon had been plaited through his blond hair. A top hat, sprouting feathers, sat atop and he carried a hooked umbrella despite the fact that the rain had stopped hours ago.   
Thus the usual juggling act of notebooks - today leather and hand collaged - cup, plate and today with the added umbrella began. Eventually he got to the table and settled, falling into his usual routine immediately.   
It was fascinating to watch, and Courf once gave the wrong change to a customer, once nearly left a toastie in the oven too long.

~~~

Jehan left a little later today, whiling away a few hours he probably should have spent on the review his lecturer set. He plucked one last raspberry off his plate as he left, leaving a poem carefully beneath his plate.   
He'd selected the notebook for it's ease at pulling out pages without any of the aesthetically displeasing rough edges usual with pages. He'd also taken care to make the paper look natural, as if it had been forgotten - not purposefully left in the hope that a certain barista would pick it up oh no...  
With that he hung his umbrella on his arm, set his top hat at the perfect angle and headed out to await the next day.

**Author's Note:**

> A Coffee Shop Modern AU, based on one of the many posts on tumblr and expanded by others.


End file.
